Session September 7, 2019

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Oh! To talk with this magician who shot avenging cakes through space!
"You can turn around and give it to charity," they tell me.
by TNT

We were on vacation in California, and one place we walked was Morro Bay in Central California.  It was a pleasant excursion.  We had not expected the terrain to be so easy so we wandered leisurely, looking at the plants and the mountain ahead,

“Do you think we could climb it?”  I asked him.

“I don’t know—it’s not in my guidebook,” he answered.

We talked about trivial things we had seen on U-Tube, such as some crazy magician who did something very strange—what was it?

I answered, “Oh, to talk with this magician who shot avenging cakes through space.”

“WHAT?” He exclaimed, “CAKES?  Like Lil Debbie cakes or muffins?  Why?  Whatever was he thinking?  To send cakes to aliens as a ‘welcome to Earth’ gesture?  But Avenging?  Hey, that puts the whole perspective into another reality or emotional viewpoint. How weird!  Did he really?  Or was it a publicity stunt?”

I shook my head.  “I only heard half the story.  I think it was a trick.  He shot the cakes through a space warp cannon built by the US Military to defend Earth from meteors.”

“Well, that beats the heck out of nuclear space bombs.”

“Yep.  If they fall back to Earth unconsumed by the space goblins (in the warp), they can turn around and give them to charity.”

“Yep.  Somebody will benefit.”

We tripped along, giggling at the silliness of our talk.

Afterwards, my friend was supposed to meet me for dinner.  He didn’t arrive.  His motel room was empty, and his suitcases were closed.  I wonder if he found the space cakes and didn’t feel hungry anymore.

You never know with people.

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Anyone who has spent much time around young children has heard the famous words, "I'm bored!"
by RMAF

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The police had few clues as to where Tom might have gone after leaving Rosie's.
by MD

Rosie’s body was decomposed to the extent that the police were at first unsure whether the corpse was male or female.  The bullet hole in the skull, however, left no doubt as to the cause of death. The handwritten confession from Tom Clark, mailed to the department a few weeks after the body’s discovery, made it fairly obvious this was a murder…and Tom was the perpetrator. 

The confession made it clear that Tom and Rosie’s tempestuous relationship—known to the police and documented in various domestic violence reports from calls, initiated sometimes by Rosie, sometimes by Tom himself—had finally erupted into the shooting. The problem was that so much time had elapsed from the commission of the crime that the police had few clues as to where Tom might have gone after leaving Rosie’s. 

It was several weeks later, when Tom’s prop plane began circling the little island where Rosie’s body had been found by her cabin door, that the case reached its ultimate, inevitable conclusion. Round and round the plane droned in ever-tightening concentric circles as police watched from across the bay, speculating as to what action to take. When the antique plane’s engine began to sputter and stall, the officers wisely decided to let nature take its course. They observed dispassionately as the motor finally gave out and the plane crashed into the woods and exploded in flames, coincidentally not too far from where Rosie’s body had originally been discovered.

“Well, that’s poetic justice for you,” observed Sergeant Walsh to his captain.  “Rosie and Tom were both nut jobs, and what just happened here proves it.” 

“Right you are, Walshie,” the captain replied. “This is one for the books and we can consider this case closed.”

Sergeant Walsh, who was of a somewhat musical bent, subsequently composed the heartrending ballad “The Legend of Tom and Rosie.” He recorded it and sold the demo to Nashville Records, who signed him to a ten-year contract. The song went to number one on the country charts. Sergeant Walsh left the force thereafter and embarked on a singing career, touring with other one-hit-wonder crooners. Which just goes to prove that even if it’s a gruesome murder/suicide, you can never know how one thing might lead to another.  

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You may have mistaken me for tearful, but my eyes were watering of their own accord.

CC

He took his boots off and sat down on the bed.

“You may have mistaken me for tearful, but my eyes were watering of their own accord,” he announced to the empty room. 

“I don’t care what happens to you anymore. You know I never needed this job. I’m done with you and this place for good ,” he continued.

She was bad news. Her family were crooks. Apples don’t fall far from the tree. He figured the business was just a front for something dangerous. It was good to be out of it. But it still stung.

Later, after he had rested, he went to the kitchen to make soup. Rain was falling so hard it sounded like the house was under a waterfall. The windows streamed with water. Odd plinks and plonks reminded him of the leaks he’d never cared to seal.

Now he couldn’t afford to seal them.  But that wasn’t so bad. Something else would come up. He still had options. He fired up the computer and looked around at several job postings. When he felt better, he would call them.

Suddenly the phone rang. He looked at it suspiciously, then picked up the call.  “Howard,” he barked. 

“Hi there, Howard. A little bird told me you may be in need of a job,” said a male voice, smooth as treacle. 

“Who are you?”  Howard asked though he already knew. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

“A friend who runs a little business.”

“A friend with a little bird, huh,” Howard said quietly.

“We all have little birds, don’t we,” the man replied. “Sometimes we have the same one.”

Howard abruptly ended the call and turned off his phone. He knew the little bird pretty well. And now he could put two and two together. 

He ate his soup and thought about what to do. When the rain slacked off, he went back to the bedroom and put his boots on. He debated taking a weapon then decided against it. He didn’t really need one, after all. He could defend himself by other means. And it would just look bad, given the circumstances. 

He left his phone at home and set off on foot.  Clouds roiled and twisted overhead in the high winds of this storm. It would take him less than an hour to get there, and he would wait in the parking lot until she came out. He wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but someone else would be crying, that much he knew.

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I rode on with my son and a servant, to look for water and a grassy place where we could camp before dusk.
by BG

I rode on with my son and a servant to look for water and a place to camp before dark. We were loath to be anywhere near the plantation for fear they might come back. We arrived there after a day’s travel to take the family to the train where they would all journey to safety up north with my wife’s parents in New England. Thank the Lord! We got them out when we did. The three of us intended to return and move the remaining servants and workers along with what belongings and livestock we could transport to find somewhere beyond harm’s way. We were too late. From down at the entranceway we could tell something was wrong when we found the gates ajar. We flew down the front drive to find nothing standing as we drew up to the end of the majestic rows of trees. No house; no barn; no outbuildings! Burnt to the ground!! There was not a soul in sight either. All the workers were gone and not a chicken or cow could be found. We looked high and low for any sight of our possessions. Off near a charred willow tree, my son found the tarnished spoon my youngest daughter had used to feed her dolls with. I thought of her over and over at our camp while trying to rest and overcome the distress of find everything gone. The Lord did have mercy! We at least had the comfort of knowing that she, her sisters, and their mother, plus other loved ones were spared this sight. And of course, with the three us, all the family has remained safe. We would ride in the morning to join them as soon as possible.

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A clock, on the other hand, can never be fully trusted.
by CT

Chloe peered into the crib.  Baby Henry and his pup Jojo were supposed to be napping.  Obviously that wasn’t on their agenda.  Jojo held part of the blanket in his teeth.  Both he and Henry exuded wide-eyed innocence.

In previous days, she had placed a clock in the crib, hoping the rhythmic tick-tock would induce sleep.  The results were inconsistent.

Hmmm…maybe a metronome.

She borrowed one from her music room and placed it at the end of the crib.  Within minutes Henry and Jojo slept.

  

In her kitchen, she sipped her herbal tea.

The metronome saved the day.  A clock, on the other hand, can never be fully trusted.